An Image of Death

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  I stopped, a tickle of awareness passing through me. A tattoo parlor! I checked my watch. Just after two. We had an hour before we had to be back north. I started to thread my way through traffic, then stopped. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  As if reading my thoughts, Susan pointed to Krueger’s Antiques, a few doors away. “Why don’t we check out some Bakelite?”

  I looked at the antique store, then back at the tattoo parlor. On the other hand, all I’d be doing was asking a few questions. “In a minute.”

  Susan flared her nostrils and pointed her chin in the direction of the tattoo parlor. “Must you?”

  I nodded.

  She sighed, and followed me across the street.

  Chicago Tattoos and Piercing was so sterile and well-lit it could have passed for the clinic I take my father to. We stepped into a large room—the studio, a sign said—filled with several dentist-type chairs and a phalanx of steel instruments. The sign said the shop prided itself on being the oldest—and cleanest—tattoo parlor in Chicago, and there wasn’t a speck of dust, a piece of trash, or dirty needle to be seen. The place was so civilized there was even a waiting area, with a leather couch and soda machine. I looked around, half expecting to see a supply of surgical masks on hand.

  The walls were covered with hundreds of designs, from dainty butterflies and dragons to coiled snakes, and every conceivable animal, emblem, and logo in between. Large, small, conventional, obscene—I’d never seen so many tattoos in one place. Hundreds more were displayed in a thick binder on the counter.

  Susan sat primly on the sofa, her purse on her lap. The place was empty except for a man bent over a bucket of sudsy water, ringing out a mop. His gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he sported a long gray beard. The skin on both arms was completely obscured by tattoos, and he wore an orange sarong. When he spotted us, he straightened up and gave us a beatific smile. I thought of one of those smiling Buddha statues you see in yoga studios.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Susan muttered under her breath.

  The man put down the mop, folded his hands in front of his heart, and bowed his head. “Namaste.” Greetings.

  I did the same thing. The man in the sarong nodded approval. “Are you here for a tattoo?”

  “Well, not exact—”

  “You’ve come to the right place.” He picked up the bucket and moved toward the counter. “We have some beautiful ancient designs. Asian, Buddhist, Thai, Indian.”

  “But—”

  “First timers, huh?” He stepped behind the counter.

  I tried to cut in. “Actually—”

  He went on. “The ancients believed people took on the characteristics of the tattoos they chose. Different tattoos have different powers. For example, there’s a tattoo called sah riga lin torng that brings adoration. On the other hand, suk roop seua pen is a tiger tattoo that causes its wearer to be feared. Thais thought tattoos could stop bullets.” He smiled. “It’s part of a long tradition that sees pain as the way to tap into man’s primal urge for meaning and belonging.” Susan and I exchanged glances. “Women, too,” he added hastily. “It’s all very spiritual.”

  “We’re not here for a tattoo,” I said firmly.

  He looked temporarily crestfallen. Then he brightened. “Maybe a piercing? I have some lovely navel rings and nose—”

  “I was just wondering if you might be able identify a tattoo.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Depends what it is.”

  “I can draw it for you.”

  He pulled out a paper and pencil.

  I sketched out the torch and the stars. While he studied the design, Susan got up and picked her way into the studio.

  He tipped his head to the side. “Where’d you see this?”

  “A woman. She had one on her wrist.”

  “American?”

  “I—I’m not sure. Why?”

  “I’ve been in this business for a long time. Before I became a Buddhist, even. But I’ve never seen anything like that. Like I said, though, tattooing is a very old practice. Asians did it centuries before the Hell’s Angels.”

  I watched Susan examine some of the designs on the wall. “Why’d you ask if she was an American?”

  “Because if she wasn’t, and you knew where she was from, it might trigger something. Like I said, I’ve been around these things practically all my life.”

  I hesitated. “What if she were Russian? Or from that part of the world?”

  “Russian, huh?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well.…” He fingered a tiny gold hoop in his ear. “In Russia, you got your prisons. And your gulags. You see a lot of tattoos there. Some are just general, but others could be specific to a particular prison. Even a ward.”

  “I wouldn’t know whether she was ever in jail.”

  “Don’t matter. The men—they like to brand their women.” He grinned. “The women don’t mind.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “Course, then you got your army folks, too,” he said hurriedly.

  “The Russian army?”

  “Or navy.”

  Susan stopped at a row of tattoos on the wall.

  I looked back at the sketch. “Do you think this could have been an army tattoo?”

  “Hard to say.” He stroked his beard. “But, you know, now that I think of it, I remember a guy who came in a while back. He had a torch with some kind of number on his shoulder. Wanted to add to it.”

  “A torch?”

  “Yeah. It even looked a little like that there sketch. Dude said he was in the Russian airborne.”

  A buzz skimmed my nerves.

  “Could be they’re hung up about fire over there. I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the most powerful symbols there is. For Buddhists, it’s a medium of purification. Even more powerful than water.”

  “How so?”

  He leaned his elbows on the counter. “A burning fire is the mind ‘unawakened,’ agitated, full of passions and delusions. The goal is to extinguish the fire so that the mind is released. Unbound. You’re more aware. Closer to nirvana. It’s in early Buddhist scriptures: ‘The wise…they go out like this flame.’” He was starting to gear up again. “I can point you to a couple of books, if you’re interested.”

  I hoisted my bag farther up my shoulder. “No, thanks. But you’ve been very helpful.” I looked over at Susan. “Okay, Miss Susan. Let’s go check your Bakelite now.”

  “Not so fast.” She spun around and pointed to a tattoo that looked like a variation of a Celtic knot. “How much for this one?” she asked the tattoo artist. “And how long would it take?”

  ***

  After I dragged Susan home and picked up Rachel, I stopped by Sunset, chatted with Stan, and walked out with twice as much fish as I needed. When dinner was over, I fortified myself with half a bottle of wine. Then I called David.

  “Hello, Ellie.”

  His voice was measured. Cool. I heard a quiet commotion in the background. Was that Willie? Or Brigitte?

  “You didn’t call me back.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said. “I—I heard her message on your machine.”

  “I thought so.”

  “David?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me it’s not true. This is just all some kind of horrible misunderstanding.”

  He didn’t answer. An image of his hands stroking my skin swept over me. I pushed it away. “David?”

  He cleared his throat. “I—I can’t say that, Ellie.”

  Pressure built in my chest. The nightmare was back. “But—but what about us?”

  He sighed. “Ellie, it’s no secret you and I have been having problems. You couldn’t call our relationship smooth.”

  “I—I was thinking we could work it out. I never—I didn’t expect—this.”

  “I wasn’t looking for it, either. It just happened.”

  “What happened? What was it about her? Tell me.” Why was I doing this, tor
turing myself?

  He was quiet. Then, “I don’t know if I can explain it. I didn’t realize it until I went to the airport. It was all—very fast. But when I saw her again, it was as if she was supposed to be there.”

  “Supposed to be there?”

  “She understands me, Ellie. She knows what it’s like to lose most of her family. To grow up on her own. And she doesn’t want to charge off and save the world. She’s content to stay home and take care of me.”

  “David, you’ve only known her two weeks. How do you know?”

  “How did we?”

  “Apparently, we didn’t.”

  “She flew halfway around the world to be with me, Ellie.”

  “Oh, so distance is the mitigating factor? What if I had flown over and met you in Germany? Would that have made a difference?”

  “You didn’t.”

  I thought about it, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say anything. I felt drained. Nothing would make a difference, anyway.

  “What about Dad?” I said miserably. “And Rachel? What do I tell them?”

  For the first time I heard uncertainty in his voice. “Tell—tell them…I’m so sorry.”

  Tears started to well up. “David, I can’t pretend to understand any of this. I do think it has something to do with finding your uncle, and I understand that your perceptions might be skewed. That things might appear to be very different in a short period of time. But I—”

  “Ellie, I’ve never seen things more clearly.”

  So much for talking it out. Susan was wrong. I blinked back tears. Then I remembered the airport and Brigitte’s conversation on her cell. He might not believe me, but, in a way, I felt protective of him. And this might be the last chance I’d have. “David, be careful.”

  “Careful? Careful how?”

  “I—I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Ellie, but don’t worry. I’m fine. And I want you to know—”

  “No, listen. I need to tell you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I let out a breath. “After I heard Brigitte’s message on your machine, I went to the airport to go home. O’Hare was shut down because of the weather. So I went to the bar to check her out. She didn’t know who I was. I sat at the next table. She was talking on her cell phone.” I hesitated. “David, she was talking to someone in New York. A man. She told him as soon as you signed the papers to sell the shop, she would come to him, and they would go away together. David…she told him she loved him.”

  There was silence.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “You haven’t signed the papers yet, have you?”

  More silence.

  “David?”

  His voice was cool. “Ellie, I know I’ve hurt you deeply. I’m truly sorry. I should never have allowed you to come to Philadelphia and meet Willie. It wasn’t fair. But I have to wonder whether you’re telling me the truth now.”

  “David, do you think I would ever lie to you?”

  “I didn’t think so, but your timing is—well—it’s suspect.”

  I knew I was grasping for straws. “David, she’s not your family. She’s not your uncle’s family, either.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Neither are you.”

  ***

  That night the demons invaded my soul. Not just the dybbuks who come after me for a tasteless comment or hurtful look. These were the darker ones, the ones who delight in pointing out my essential worthlessness. The ones who chortle gleefully that I will be unmasked, revealed to be the fraud I am. It was your fault you lost David, they sneered. If you hadn’t been so cavalier, so driven, so insensitive, he would still be yours. I tried to argue it wasn’t me. It was Brigitte. She stole him away. Not so, they scoffed. It’s your fault. It always is.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It was still dark when I met Mac and the crew at Cabrini Green. Jordan Bennett had given me the key to the apartment, and Mac started setting up lights. We would begin taping indoors, but when the moving van arrived, we’d take the camera off sticks and shoot handheld.

  Jordan endeared himself to the crew by arriving just after dawn with coffee and donuts. When he passed me the box, I declined.

  “You’re the first woman I’ve met who turned down a free Krispy Kreme,” he said.

  “I’m boycotting them.”

  “They’re the hottest things around.”

  “Any food that has its own fan site on the Web is no longer a fad—it’s an obsession. A crass, unhealthy one at that.”

  Jordan cocked his head.

  “How many fan sites for tomatoes do you see? Or string beans? It’s exploitative. And commercial. I won’t be a party to it.”

  “And you know it has its own fan site because.…” He looked puzzled, then smiled. “You wouldn’t be surfing the Net for Krispy Kremes yourself, now would you?”

  I sniffed, trying to salvage the shreds of my dignity.

  He offered the rest to the crew.

  I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Jordan. I’m in a lousy—I’m just not hungry.”

  “No problem.”

  The truck, donated by Feldman Development, showed up at nine. An enormous van capable of holding goods from two or three households, the meager possessions of six kids barely made a dent. We decided to shoot the furniture truck instead.

  By the time it arrived, four of the boys had shown up. The other two kids had jobs and wouldn’t be there until evening. The boys’ eyes widened as they watched six beds, dressers, and desks being unloaded. It was just the basics, but for some of them, it was probably the first time they’d ever seen new furniture. Jordan had leased it for a year.

  We followed the boys with the camera while they unpacked and started to set up. Three of them were African American. The fourth, in sleeveless denim shirt and multiple piercings, looked like a wannabe biker. I considered telling him what I’d learned about spiritual tattoos, but he didn’t look like a Buddhist, and he didn’t need the tattoos.

  Although shy and withdrawn around us, the kids were easy and boisterous with Jordan, clinging to him like he was a latter-day Fagan. Unlike Fagan, though, Jordan cared, and I made sure Mac got B-roll of him dispensing high fives to one, quiet words of counsel to another. After the kids put away their things, we shot short interviews with them.

  We were just wrapping up when I heard the click of heels on the parquet floor. I turned to see Ricki Feldman trotting toward us. With a black sable coat thrown over some kind of designer pantsuit, she looked too upscale for the place, but I pretended not to notice. Jordan’s look of surprise said he hadn’t expected her to show up, either, but he gave her a warm welcome and took her on a tour of the apartment. She stuck close to him. Only once did I catch them smiling at each other in a way that went beyond professional. I pretended not to see that, too.

  “How about I take you and Jordan to lunch?” she said when they’d finished the tour. “My treat.”

  I smiled politely. “Sorry. I have too much going on today.”

  “No problem.” She waved dismissively, then turned to Jordan. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “Just let me make sure the guys are settled.” He headed back toward the bedrooms.

  She followed him with her eyes, then looked at me. “So, how’s it going?”

  “We got some warm, beautiful footage of the kids and Jordan this morning.”

  “When do you shoot the congressman?”

  “He’ll be back in the district for Presidents’ Day. We have an interview set up.”

  “Good. How about your friend David? Did you end up using him in the film?”

  “No.”

  The look on my face must have brooked no argument, because she didn’t pursue it.

  Jordan came back out, cheerfully rubbing his hands. His manner was so open, so innocent, that my maternal, protective instincts snapped on. A relationship with Ricki Feldman was not fo
r the fainthearted. I hoped Jordan knew what he was doing. But then, who was I to judge? I was no poster child for healthy relationships.

  Ricki shrugged into her coat and started for the door. Jordan was two steps behind. Then she turned around. “Oh, Ellie, I almost forgot. I have a favor to ask. You remember Max Gordon, don’t you?”

  I frowned.

  “You met him in the restaurant with your friend David.”

  Why did she have to keep bringing him up? “Gold Coast Trust, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Well, he’s breaking ground tomorrow on his new skyscraper. You know, the one just north of the Loop.” When I didn’t answer, she added, “Don’t tell me you don’t remember that, either. I told you about it at the restaurant.”

  I shook my head. Only Ricki Feldman would expect me to remember a conversation from weeks ago that lasted less than thirty seconds.

  “He’s developing the site near Wabash and Wacker,” she said impatiently.

  “Wabash and Wacker? Isn’t that the site that Donald Trump had his eye on?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Now it clicked. The proposal called for an eighty-story tower, the fifth-tallest in Chicago. It had generated the typical hue and cry: Some said it would destroy the skyline; others maintained it was critical for the city’s survival. The mayor approved it, but for some reason, Trump bowed out. Happily, Max Gordon stepped in. I hadn’t realized until now that was the skyscraper they were talking about.

  “What’s the favor?” I asked.

  “Will you shoot the ground-breaking ceremony for me?”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “Ricki, I’m not a news crew. I don’t do that kind of work. Why don’t I find you a freelance crew?”

  “But I want you to shoot it.”

  “What time is the ceremony?”

  “Noon.”

  I started to say Okay—I could always use the extra money—but she didn’t give me the chance. “This could lead to something big, you know. It’s major construction, in the heart of downtown. I wouldn’t be surprised if Max wants a video of the building going up. You’d definitely have a foot in the door.”